


Sleep Now in The Fire

by Monty-BoJangles (slinkymilinky)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slinkymilinky/pseuds/Monty-BoJangles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why do you want this so badly?” Derek says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep Now in The Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tana for being everything. Erm. There is no plot here. There is just me with a couple of hours to kill and a fondness for purple. All mistakes are very much mine.

For the longest moment Derek’s mouth hovers just out of reach. A long juddering exhalation flows over Stiles’ lips, fills the cavity of his mouth and floods his senses with a wave of _expectation_ …but nothing else. It’s torturous. Stiles doesn’t dare move; his bones feel like they’re vibrating, joints humming in their sockets, and he’s scared he’ll fly apart if he does. Another warm breath folds over his face, bringing with it the scent of toothpaste and somewhere under that the bitter tone of black coffee.

“Why do you want this so badly?”

Something cracked and brittle hides underneath the polished veneer of Derek’s voice. For a second Stiles envisions wrapping a hand around the bastard’s throat – pictures squeezing every last cubic inch of delicately fragranced breath out of him.

The things that he wants and the things that he needs have gone all weird and backwards these last few months. If the hyper vigilance he’d felt during the kanima debacle had seemed like the end of the world then this; the Alphas, the lack of oxygen in every room, the people that won’t even look at him anymore… Scott, his dad, his own reflection… this is…

The words catch on the tip of his tongue where Derek’s breath holds them;

_Why?_ _because I can’t stand you, because you’re terrifying, because I want…_

If he could keep a hold of his thoughts long enough to turn them into sentences, he _might_ tell Derek that hey, this is _his_ room and it’s _Derek_ that’s come here hungry for something. But that’s a lie. Stiles has never felt so starved. It’s a dull ache present in everything he does. Nothing seems to satisfy it. It’s _Derek Derek Derek_ all the time. Derek has eclipsed everything.

Everything is contradictions. He can’t keep himself in order.

Somehow between the counselors and the medication and the panic attacks and now the _werewolves,_ Stiles has never really considered the idea that maybe he’s just fucking crazy. He should have though …because it can’t be normal to feel this way but he can’t remember ever feeling anything else. It was just slower before; a simmer not a boil.

The first wet press of lips against his is a hesitant and fragile thing. A steady stream of _‘Is this happening? Is this actually happening?’_ runs through Stiles’ head as long fingers trip across the soft fabric of his t-shirt, refusing to settle. They flit against his side like a fledgling bird; brief points of contact made up of whispers and glancing touches that are barely there at all. Stiles’ hands are fisted tightly by his sides; fingernails cutting into his palms. He’s actually shaking, his breath coming choppy and ragged and he _hates_ himself in that moment – panting against the damp seam of Derek’s mouth.

Derek’s lips print syllables on the swell of his lower lip, “What do you need, Stiles?”

An animal noise crawls from his throat in response; something needy and raw that causes Derek’s fingers to cease their migrant path down his side. Derek’s thumb traces the cut of his hip before his whole hand fastens to that ridge of bone in a grip that’s sure to leave bruises.

The other hand moves up and under his shirt, warm and solid. The digits slip into the groves between his ribs like they’re meant to be there, like Stiles was crafted with the shape of this hand in mind. The muscles in his stomach jump, roll and shudder against the touch – everything pulled taught and tight.

Their mouths seal together and – _finally_ – there’s the wet slide of Derek’s tongue against his own.

It’s enough to snap the tenuous thread of control Stiles had been holding onto.

Stiles claws his hands into the tight fabric of Derek’s shirt and walks them backwards until they hit the wall. Once there - Derek pinned like a butterfly against a board - Stiles presses flush against him, nudges Derek’s legs apart with his thigh to get _closer_. The full body contact is deliciously heady, the role reversal more so, and Stiles can feel the fast thrum of Derek’s heartbeat under his palms and the hard outline of Derek’s cock prodding against his thigh through layers of denim and cotton.

Derek’s wandering hands have found purchase in his newly long hair, tugging his head back to expose the vulnerable column of his throat and kiss roughly at his neck. It’s all teeth; no finesse. A full body shiver runs down Stiles’ spine making him hum like a tuning fork. His hips roll forward of their own accord and for a short second there’s exquisite friction as they grind together. Derek emits a quiet gasp that’s accompanied by the soft sound of his head hitting the wall behind him and hell, that there _is_ satisfying.

“You want me too, yeah?” Stiles growls, and who’s the Big Bad Wolf now? He’s repeating the action, canting his hips and watching with fascination as Derek’s eyelids flutter closed. “You do,” Stiles croons, “you totally do.”

They set a slow rhythm, rocking against each other until the hands drop from Stiles’ hair to rest lightly on his shoulders. Stiles knows he should be focusing on the liquid warmth pooling low in his groin and the pleasure-pain drag of fabric over his sensitive cock…but mostly his focus is taken up by the way Derek’s mouth has dropped open, red and kiss swollen, and the small frown of concentration etched between his thick eyebrows. Derek Hale, the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen,and here he is: debauched and dirty, dry humping Stiles’ leg like a randy teenager.

“When in Rome...” Derek admits, pressing their foreheads together and fitting the words around shallow pants. Stiles feels mortification mix thickly with arousal; he’s never been able to keep his mouth shut why would sex be any different? Derek’s hands still don’t know where to go, he rubs mindless circles into Stiles’ shoulder muscles, subconsciously matching the rhythm of their thrusts. It’s hot and exposing and Stiles could watch the minute changes that run across Derek’s face all night. He tells Derek things, how he wants to take time cataloguing every tiny variation in facial expression – learn every moan and gasp. How he’s only human and fuck if he’s sporting a hard-on that could dent metal. How he wants, he wants to come _now_ but he needs- it needs to be more than this. He wants to leave a mark, _god_ , even if he knows it’s impossible-

Derek huffs, “Do you ever shut up?” but it’s soft, almost playful.

He says, ‘sorry,’ on one breath and ‘fuck you,’ on the next because he can’t stop talking and Derek should know that already.

“Less clothes,” he moans against Derek’s chin, tugs him by the collar, “Bed.”

He walks them backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed, sits on the edge and spreads his legs far enough for Derek to stand between them or crawl on top of him… but Derek doesn’t. Stiles collapses back onto his elbows and gives Derek an impatient glare.

“What are you waiting for?”

Instead of answering Derek pulls his shirt over his head in one easy movement, toes off his boots and then flicks open his sinfully tight jeans. He meets Stiles’ eyes with a calm, hooded gaze and without a hint of self-consciousness pushes the pants down his legs and steps out of them, standing there naked and looking in control. And it’s not fair because a second ago Stiles had the upper hand. He had the control and now it’s gone.

He’s not nervous. He’s not.

Derek’s skin is unblemished, pulled tight and pale over heavy muscle. Not pale like Stiles is pale, but still – it’s December and the warm golden tan Derek was sporting during the summer has faded. Stiles has seen Derek shirtless before so his eyes flick lower, eager to map out the bits he hasn’t seen. Derek’s cock curves up towards his stomach, dark and heavy…he’s thick and uncut but not huge enough to make Stiles feel inadequate. In fact there’s a brief moment when Stiles thinks ‘Huh, I might have a good half-inch on him’ which is a bit of locker-room mentality he knows has no place here. Derek seems to be waiting for Stiles to say something. Which is… novel.

“You know that protein shakes aren’t real food, right?” is the only thing Stiles can come up with and he’s proud of how casual it sounds.

Derek’s lips twitch. He moves closer, and Stiles stutters out a shaky inhalation when Derek places his hands on Stiles’ knees and strokes up his thighs to the waistband of his sweats. He watches as Derek makes quick work untangling the drawstring and tugging the fabric down. Even these movements are smooth in a way that hints at an inhuman coordination. Stiles cants his hips slightly to help and hisses through his teeth when his erection is exposed to the cold air. He should shut the window really.

He shuffles up the mattress, pulling his shirt off as he goes and tosses it to the side. Derek’s eyes flick over the protruding line of his collarbone, down his chest and to his groin. Stiles sees Derek’s eyebrows jump up his forehead and mentally fist-pumps because _yes_. He’s got a big dick and Derek just made a micro-expression that could easily be translated as ‘Well shit, look who’s packing’.

Then Derek is moving with purpose - crawling up Stiles’ body and dipping his head to lick at a nipple and the sharp sensation has Stiles’ hips snapping up. They rub together, skin on skin and it’s exquisite. Stile’ moans, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. Derek gasps against his shoulder, lifts his head and kisses him hard and fast. Their noses bump, Derek’s tongue licking into Stiles’ mouth without hesitation. Stiles tries to fight back, returning every wet caress and sharp nip with something harder and brighter.

Derek lays over him, his weight settling fully so that they’re flush against each other. Chest to chest. Cock to cock.  His body is so warm, Stiles thinks, and thrusts again, keening desperately into Derek’s mouth and running his hands over the hard planes of Derek’s back. He can smell them too; the musky scent of sex that gets stronger the more they rut against each other. It’s everywhere. And what must that smell like to a werewolf? Somehow that thought, the thought of how fucking dirty it must be for Derek makes him shudder all over again.

Derek is all masculine weight, and Stiles strains against it, reveling in the sweat-slicked slide of skin against skin and works a hand between them. He manages to fist their cocks together and tightens his grip into something hard and punishing. With no encouragement Derek starts to pump his hips, fucking into the tight circle of Stiles’ hand, breaking their kiss to lever himself up onto his hands so that he can make his thrusts longer and harder. He looks down between them at the flush on Stiles’ chest, gaze catching on the small dark mole below Stiles’ left nipple and finally to the sight of their cocks moving together.

And Stiles is chewing on his own sore lower lip, too engrossed in how they look, how they’re both looking. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding back sounds until something high and kittenish slips past. Derek’s eyes snap to his and- it’s intimate and intense and _god_ , what the fuck is wrong with them. This isn’t going to last long; Stiles is already at that knife edge waiting for the white-out to cut in. The look on Derek’s face - his hair damp with sweat, his eyes glazed and unfocused, his mouth parted slightly and the tension across his brow – is enough to start a fire at the base of Stiles’ spine. It’s vicious and consuming.

He’s aware he’s talking again. Nonsense mostly, but he keeps his mouth moving in the shape of compliments and confessions, lets it all out until Derek sticks two fingers between his lips, pressing down hard against his tongue, so Stiles stops talking and starts sucking. Hard. Derek makes a noise Stiles never thought he’d hear from him; a restless whine that sounds almost pained, the movement of his hips starts faltering, knuckles white and sharp where his other hand has twisted into the bed sheets.

Derek removes his fingers from Stiles’ mouth, hand scrubbing up cheek and into his hair, digits spreading over his scalp to hold Stiles in place. He’s locked down; his field of vision narrowed to Derek’s green eyes. Stiles is seconds from coming; he can’t believe he’s held off this long. He briefly wishes they could take their time and make it last – but right now foreplay seems like an impossibly complicated task. He tells Derek this as he tightens his hold on their cocks.

“It’s all been foreplay,” Derek gasps. The sentence is garbled and broken and he sounds so _young_ , younger than Stiles even. “all…all of it… I don’t kn-” he breaks off to moan through a particularly long thrust, “It’s always been about this for you…for me…”

Even now, teetering at the edge the way he is, Stiles feels like Derek’s spelt out something that’s been bothering him for- well. That’s too complicated. So Stiles just breaths out a “fuck yes”, which drifts away with all the other sounds in the room as all sensations begin to blend. The harsh rasp of their breathing, the rough friction of Derek’s cock against his, and the pull, burn, stretch in his muscles – it all melds into one long column of pleasure running the length of his body so good it makes his vision swim. Then Derek bites down, blunt but hard on the hinge of Stiles’ jaw and they’re both coming, long and messy all over each other. Derek shudders and collapses on top of him, mouth twitching against the curve of Stiles’ neck while Stiles gasps harshly for air, loud and obnoxious. Synchronicity. It’s a beautiful thing.

For a long while they just lay and breathe, limbs jumping through the aftershocks. They’re both sticky with come, sweat and saliva but Stiles can’t make himself care.

He’s starting to shiver when Derek manhandles him under the covers and pulls them up to his throat. The mess on his stomach smears all over the comforter but it doesn’t matter. Derek doesn’t climb in though. He swings his legs onto the floor and sits with his back to Stiles.

Of course, that wary tension is already leaking back into Derek’s shoulders. Filling him up. He keeps looking at the window in a way that’s borderline twitchy. The mix of self-loathing and guilt is swift, familiar but unwanted.

“You said it’s always been about this...you and me,” Stiles prods when Derek is still sitting there a minute or more later.

Derek stands up, pulls on his jeans. “What are you talking about?” he mutters. Stiles pushes himself up onto his elbows and watches Derek fishes around on the floor for his shirt.

“It’s just that-”

But Stiles already understands the futility of pushing this. Derek’s clearly not ready for this conversation. Stiles isn’t either. He’s still too fucking angry and yes, terrified. About everything.

“Look,” he continues after a breath, “Just come back sometime okay? People keep looking at me like I’m gonna to implode. My dad, Lydia, Ms Morrell…even Scott now. I’m fine when I’m distracted. It’s really fucking noisy the rest of the time but, you know, when I have something different to focus on, something simple-”

“What’s any of that got to do with me?”

Derek is trying to keep his expression schooled. He’s _trying_ to look like he’s done and bored and has no idea why he’s in a teenager’s bedroom at three in the morning – like he isn’t as helpless to all this as Stiles is.

For Stiles it’s all _Derek, Derek, Derek_ all the time. He’s eclipsed everything else.

And if it isn’t Derek all the time…if it’s just Stiles…then…

“You’re a great distraction,” Stiles says, and stretches back against the pillow. Derek lifts an eyebrow. Stiles grins.


End file.
